and Cancales supérieures: baked in the shell with mushrooms and cheese, and washed down exquisitely with the juice of grapes goldened by the French suns. And salmon, cold, with sauce Criliche; and artichokes made sentimental with that Beethoven-like fluid orchestrated out of caviar, grated sweet almonds and small onions; and ham boiled in claret and touched up with spinach au gratin. The romance of it—and the wonder!
But other things, alackaday, must concern us. Au 'voir, my beloveds, au 'voir! Au 'voir to thee, La Matelote, thou fair and fair and toothsome fish stew, and to thee, Perdreau Farci à la Stuért, thou aristocratic twelve-franc seducer of the esophagus! Au 'voir, my adored ones, au 'voir.
Voilà! And now again are we afield under the French moon. What if no more are the grisettes of Paul de Kock and Murger to fascinate the eye with wistful diableries? What if no more the old Vachette
